April 30, 2007
...seen blocking traffic on Canal Street, doubtless on official mission to the free popcorn stand outside AMC Theaters Village VII on Third Avenue. (Q: Should it be renamed the Tribeca plus Kips Bay, Midtown and East Village film festival, based on the actual screening venues?) Some critics complain this year's festival has become too big and corporate, but clearly they've never been to Sundance. Anyhow, more interesting would be why Subaru did not jockey for position as the official festival car; its Tribeca is appropriately priced for this beloved neighborhood below Canal full of SUV-sized baby strollers.
Tags:
deniro, tribeca film festival
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Posted on 4/30/2007
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April 25, 2007
On this day annually the World Health Organization draws attention to its ongoing campain to roll back malaria in Africa. America's oil and gas industry—presently enjoying record profits—went on an orgy of self-congratulation, commending itself for its fine efforts in attempting to prevent malaria in Africa. In the New York Times A section alone, nearly three full pages of self-congratulatory advertisements appear today: the first from ExxonMobil, the second from the alleged "people of America's oil and natural gas industry," and the third featuring a grinning Adel Chaouch, the director of "corporate social responsibility" for Marathon. I noticed two intriguing things about these "people" in the last 24 hours: First, the price of gas went up by eight cents a gallon at my neighborhood Manhattan gas station this morning. And second: they are always disingenuous.
Take Mr. Chaouch of Marathon: extolling the virtues of Marathon’s anti-malaria campaign on Equatorial Guinea’s Biota Island sounds so utterly stunning—but only assuming one has never heard of Equatorial Guinea. A ten-second search of the CIA’s World Factbook website revealed exactly what I had suspected:
This tiny country, composed of a mainland portion plus five inhabited islands, is one of the smallest on the African continent.
The president exerts almost total control over the political system and has discouraged political opposition. Equatorial Guinea has experienced rapid economic growth due to the discovery of large offshore oil reserves, and in the last decade has become Sub-Saharan Africa's third largest oil exporter. Despite the country's economic windfall from oil production resulting in a massive increase in government revenue in recent years, there have been few improvements in the population's living standards.
In other words, Marathon has vastly enriched itself from doing business in Equatorial Guinea. Biota Island is a tiny place located off the coast of an enormous continent. Investing $12.8 million in spraying there—based on Marathon’s 2006 profits—proportionally represents the purchase of a tube of ointment at a local drugstore.
By the time I reached the Op-Ed page and saw yet another quarter-page ExxonMobil ad—this one glowing about Exxon's magnanimous work in Kuito, capital of Angola's Bie Province—the level of corporate cynicism shot through the roof. Granted, Nigeria's stolen weekend election and the ongoing unrest in the Niger Delta, including kidnapping of oil workers don't make for warm or fuzzy success stories for the oil companies. And just yesterday, rebels in Ethiopia killed 70 in a Chinese-run oil field. In truth, CNOOC doesn't print happy advertisements in China Daily about its cozy relationship with African dictators or that "China’s investments have brought resentment from local politicians and residents." But then again, neither do our oil companies. And sadly enough, malaria continues to ravage untold millions all across Africa—especially in countries where the oil companies aren't busy extracting Africa's wealth. So ExxonMobil, thank you for contributing $10 million to fight malaria in Africa this year. We assume your position atop the Fortune 500 allows you to leverage your dear friends at Big Pharma into selling their antimalarial pills at a discount.
Tags:
africa, equatorial guinea, malaria, marathon, new york times, world factbook, world health organization
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Posted on 4/25/2007
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April 23, 2007
Earth Day celebrations were in full swing around New York yesterday, and we found it rather pathetic that at the electronics recycling event at Union Square Park we saw several city vehicles running with engines idling and no passengers on board. We brought this to the attention of an environmental police officer, suggesting that Sanitation might be a tad embarrassed on Earth Day were the media to publicize this egregious waste of fuel. But reality bites: every day city vehicles can be found idling for no reason at all — police cars and ambulances seem to be the worst offenders. So it's terrific that Mayor Bloomberg as a cornerstone of his seminal planYC speech mentioned a crackdown on idling cars, something that New Yorkers incessantly complain about as a major quality-of-life issue. We really wonder about those many instances on sunny days when the police and ambulance personnel on board can be seen eating or reading the New York Post with engines running and windows wide open. Speaking of that illustrious tabloid newspaper, several bundles of dumped promotional copies were observed in Long Island City at 12:30pm today on 23rd Street near the E/V subway station. Just a few feet away at a fire hydrant asleep at the wheel with engine and air conditioning running was a city employee in a city vehicle. We didn't have the heart to photograph that woeful scene.
It seems the angel we photographed touching down in Central Park yesterday makes an appearance only on Earth Day.
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angels, central park, earth day, recycling, sanitation
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Posted on 4/23/2007
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April 17, 2007
Remember 9/11? A few weeks ago I was off to get my kicks on Route 66, airborne from Newark en route to Albuquerque. As with so many flights these days, the ground staff were bored and slow, meaning the plane boarded late. As with so many flights, the plane actually took off well more than one hour late due to Continental scheduling too many evening departures from Newark. As with so many flights, this 757 was old, stuffy, cramped, and lacked those cool features you find on JetBlue. But at least there was a movie—for which I didn't feel like paying, since I'd already reviewed it on this website, Casino Royale.
Sitting there reading my book during this four-hour flight that featured no meal service, I was wondering: How would the airline handle that scene where a terrorist at Miami airport steals a fuel truck and attempts to ram it into a huge prototype aircraft parked outside a hangar? Would they cut it? Indeed they did not, and I whipped out the video camera:
After getting my kicks on Route 66 and returning home via red eye on Continental — the stewardesses at rear of aircraft were busy discussing date rape before my Ambien kicked in — I wrote a short email to Continental, excerpted below:
I thought it in very poor taste not to cut the scene from the movie "Casino Royale" that depicts a terrorist who steals a fuel truck, which he drives down the Miami airport runway in an attempt to blow up the prototype Skyfleet airliner on display. Have we become so inured to violence that a scene such as this can be shown on board an aircraft? For New Yorkers who have not forgotten 9/11, this was truly shocking, especially considering the flight originated in Newark.
The reply—three sentences—was rather charming: "We are concerned that you felt the in-flight entertainment selection was inappropriate. The music and video selections chosen for our aircraft are previewed and edited to ensure the material meets acceptable industry standards for an audience. Your comments are appreciated, and will be used within our Marketing division as we continue to improve our service."
I then asked my senior adviser (i.e. mom) what she thought about it. Was I stupid to complain? Did it even matter? Would anyone care? This adviser thought we are so inured to violence that no one would even bat an eyelash. We are clearly so far in the future now that United flight 93 and incompetent TSA screeners—who last October missed guns and bombs in 20 out of 22 tests at Newark airport—remain a distant memory.
UPDATE: Several of you alert readers have written today, mentioning how we as a nation have not become utterly inured to violence; most underscored the outpouring of grief over the innocent slaughtered at Virginia Tech, lives lost due to the easy availability of handguns in Virginia. One mentioned that more than six times the number of those killed in Virginia were slaughtered today in Baghdad by car bombs. Many thanks to all those who have emailed.
Tags:
casino royale, continental airlines, newark airport, tsa, united flight 11
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Posted on 4/17/2007
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April 13, 2007
We were surprised to see a W train car at 11:15 this morning pull in to Queensboro Plaza full of JetBlue ads that had been plastered over by a cryptic organization called Billionaires for Coal. There were a few variations on the same theme such as "Clean air; can't sell it, who needs it?" The website in question, that of the Rainforest Action Network, targets corporations including Citibank—whose Long Island City tower was conveniently the backdrop for this W train. Yet the posters appear to be home-printed and -mounted, making one wonder if the symbolism of the W train—as in George W. denies global warming—was semi-intentional.
Speaking of coal-fired power plants, did you hear the one about Indian Point nuclear power plant on the Hudson failing multiple siren tests this week?
Speaking of fired radio jocks, did you hear the one about the billionaire governor of New Jersey breaking multiple bones because he wasn't wearing his seatbelt en route to the Governor's mansion, where shock jock Don Imus was having a meeting.
Speaking of stars and bars, did you hear the one about the former mayor of New York, Rudy ("I'll say anything to get elected") Giuliani, who spoke to the Alabama legislature, declaring it ought to be left up to states to decide whether to fly the Confederate Flag above their Capitols. It was noted that Alabama, where Giuliani spoke, hasn't hoisted a Confederate flag above its Capitol in 15 years.
Speaking of shock and awe, Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice said yesterday's attack on the Iraqi Parliament and the destruction of a beloved bridge over River Tigris should not be interpreted too broadly. "We've known that there is a security problem in Baghdad, which is why the president has structured a new strategy," said Rice, who answered questions after meeting with Sen. John McCain (R-Ariz.), who announced cuts in his campaign staff. In other news, one of McCain's Senate colleagues lambasted him for shopping at a Baghdad market backed up by 100 troops, 2 helicopter gunships and other assorted artillery and weaponry too powerful to discuss here. Doubtless you already heard McCain got a good deal on a rug, but his deal was eclipsed by Senator Graham's deal—Lindsey G. got five rugs for five bucks. We know business in Baghdad is off, but were the rugs made in China? There has been much progress in Baghdad, as we heard from security consultants on the NewsHour yesterday evening—now the Green Zone (aka the International Zone, as in force protection by both Blackwater and Nepali Gurkhas) has multiple mini-Green Zones, each with its concentric rings of protection and walled-off houses with guard posts. "I think the message is the Iraqi security forces cannot maintain security over the Green Zone" (Laith Kubba, former Iraqi government spokesman). A whopping hundred legislators bothered to show up today to condemn the attack.
Speaking of Ring of Fire, did you hear that poor departed Johnny Cash's mansion burned to the ground this week?
Speaking of power servers, the White House lost a reported five million emails—which everyone knows exist on servers somewhere. We placed a call to our West Coast operative, who snickered and said, "Those emails aren't lost at all. I've got a high school kid down the street who can recover them all." Senator Leahy gasped on the Senate floor: "Like the famous 18-minute gap in the Nixon White House tapes, it appears likely that key documentation has been erased or misplaced. This sounds like the Administration's version of 'the dog ate my homework.'"
Speaking of worse than Richard Nixon, look for our forthcoming review of the new Broadway play Frost/Nixon, now in previews at the Bernard B Jacobs Theatre.
Speaking of billions of dollars, did you hear the one about Wolfowitz of Arabia's girlfriend, who got a top job at the Department of State? Her initial supervisor at the State Department was Elizabeth Cheney, whose father, Vice President Dick Cheney, had elevated Wolfie to the great position of Mesopotamian war guru. His great success in Iraq snared him that top job at the World Bank. Yesterday, it should be noted, "Mr. Wolfowitz apologized for his role in the raise and transfer of Shaha Ali Riza, his companion, to a few hundred staff members assembled in the bank building atrium, only to be greeted by booing, catcalls and cries for his resignation."
Speaking of billionaires for coal, they really could afford a better-quality printer, couldn't they?
Tags:
billionaires for coal, queensboro plaza, w train
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Posted on 4/13/2007
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April 06, 2007
The most intriguing three hours I've spent in the past week—other than driving around Route 66 and the Navajo Nation—was in the movie theater this Good Friday afternoon, watching the kinetic faux horrors unfold in Grindhouse, the double feature by Rodiguez and Tarantino. Featuring a number of phony trailers including a zinger titled Werewolf Women of the S.S. by Rob Zombie, all sorts of mechanical glitches occur during this double feature, including melting film, inserted scratches, intentionally awkward cuts and two "missing reels" for which theater management apologizes. I feel transported back to the late 1970s, when my feet stuck to orange soda on the movie theater floor and in the winter I had to wear gloves and a hat because of poor heat in the budget movie theaters. Every sort of subgenre comes back to life, as does one ancient villian; Werewolf features a brief cameo by Nicholas Cage as the fiendish Dr. Fu Manchu.
Speaking of zombies, the storyline of Planet Terror is rather familiar: zombies take over a small Texas town. But Rodriguez injects—quite literally—two squabbling doctors; a deluded lieutenant (Bruce Willis) back from Afghanistan; a BBQ master celebrating 25 years of running an empty restaurant; and the brilliant Rose McGowan as Cherry Darling, who loses her leg to the undead, only to be retrofitted with a machine gun that also lobs grenades. Quite compelling stuff with a haunting soundtrack—not least given the endless references to horror and science fiction films—that ends with a survival colony on the beach in Quintana Roo, hilariously evoking the original Planet of the Apes. Preceding the endless night of the living dead—Planet Terror does go on and on—a charming trailer for the fake movie Machete teaches with its big guns and dozens of knives, wherein Tejanos get pistol-whipped by a Mexican doing a hatchet job, or something like that.
In addition to Zombie's Werewolf Women of the S.S., the trailer for the fake horror film Thanksgiving is rather fascinating, not least given that Zombie's own version of Halloween launches at the end of August. (Hmmm....Tarantino's Thanksgiving comes at Easter; Zombie's Halloween at Labor Day.) In short: evil pilgrim in Plymouth Rock kills—and guess what winds up on grandma's table? The fourth trailer is totally over-the-top, titled Don't, in which the protagonists solely do that which they should not, and suffer the consequences.
Death Proof revives the frenetic action and Tarantino obsession with female assassins that so fueled both parts of Kill Bill, featuring two sets of buxom women who are crossed by a twisted stunt car driver. But the second bunch—stuntwomen busy shooting a movie in rural Tennessee—take on the evildoer, morphing into Russ Meyereseque Faster, Pussycat vixens, again with many subtle and sly references poking fun at Southern 'culture'. (Mixed in are references to everything from the Grapes of Wrath to Dukes of Hazzard.) As per usual, Tarantino inserts fake products (Great White Bites cereal—echoing the Kaboom from Kill Bill 1); fake movie posters (starring Sean Connery); and fake restaurants (Acuña Boys), layering the narrative beyond what any mere mortal can digest during the first viewing.
Tags:
bruce willis, grindhouse, nicholas cage, quentin tarantino, rob zombie, robert rodriguez
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Posted on 4/6/2007
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April 06, 2007
Rupert Murdoch's tabloid bleeding red ink by the millions doesn't just concoct far-fetched headlines; regurgitate right-wing rabid-dog prose from the think tanks of the obscure and immaterial; or spew forth what Rush Limbaugh said on his talk show. NYC.com can confirm that the New York Post—whose weekday subscription price is a full nickel, or $13 yearly—gets 35% of its daily stories directly from the Drudge Report, outgunning Fox News as its preferred source of choice. Witness, for example, "Gay Nups Get Fairy Tale Ending," a big story on Drudge yesterday, still running on Drudge (in red, no less) as of this writing. Or "VP Spanks Nancy for 'Behavior' Problem". Or "Oh My Bod! Firefighter Looks Hot in Mugshot," yet another zinger that ran with photo on Drudge yesterday. (That fire story was replaced today by Drudge with the slightly more newsworthy "Fire Breaks Out At N.Y. Nuclear Plant..." regarding our beloved Indian Point 3 just up the river.)
As for the fascinating Dr. Evil story, I did read the entire transcript of the Veep's scintillating interview with Rush. It read akin to a chocolate bunny rabbit sugar rush, wherein you bite the head of the bunny and feel the endorphin release, the glycogen coarsing throughout the body. Rush eggs on the Veep —
THE VICE PRESIDENT: Well, thank you, Rush. It's good to be back on.
RUSH: I can imagine.
Of course we can imagine—
RUSH: Can you share with us whether or not you understand their devotion, or their seeming allegiance, to the concept of US defeat?
THE VICE PRESIDENT: I can't.
Of course you can't.
THE VICE PRESIDENT: Well, it's not helpful. I made it clear earlier that I thought this created difficulties, if I can put it in a gentle form. Obviously, she's the speaker of the House and ought to travel to foreign nations and ought to conduct visits.
RUSH: She's not entitled to make her own foreign policy, is she?
THE VICE PRESIDENT: She's not entitled to make policy.
Although she clearly has a policy, in contrast to the Administration.
RUSH: You are a reserved individual --
THE VICE PRESIDENT: (chuckles)
RUSH: -- and very professional, and you've been doing this a long time, but I'm asking this for people in my audience as well as me. How do you feel when this...? Don't you get enraged when this kind of thing happens?
Very professional and reserved indeed—spending half the term in an underground bunker, or lurking behind a bush, as seen earlier this week. Watch the video from C-Span for yourself; the man is flapping his arm and lurking behind a bush.
I reprint portions of this fascinating transcript because it's free—yes, freedom is free to reproduce, just as the New York Post does in its pages. Because it's vastly cheaper for Murdoch's acolytes to crib their stories from the Web, which translates in savings that tabloids such as the Post can pass on to their readers. But why not save that nickel and just read the Drudge Report? It's vastly more entertaining than the Post. And free. And unlike the Post, Matt Drudge's headlines are not all in caps.
Tags:
dick cheney, drudge report, new york post, rush limbaugh
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Posted on 4/6/2007
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April 04, 2007
Although New York has no shortage of roadside diners, motorcycles, or garish neon signs, one of the greatest concentrations of these three classic elements of Americana can be found all along old Route 66 in New Mexico. While Albuquerque's downtown strip of Route 66 features dozens of motels, diners, and Harley riders with outrageous handlebars, it is in Gallup at the western edge of New Mexico where you'll find the greatest collection of honky-tonks, plus a chance to hobnob with Navajo cowboys.
Lots of towns and cities along Route 66 have lost their charm and luster over the years, first victims of the Interstate highway system, then rapid suburban development, and then strip malls. Gallup and Albuquerque are no exceptions; the entire eastern end of Gallup now features the same fast-food restaurants and chain stores found everywhere in America, and rapid growth in Albuquerque has stretched the western edge of the city all the way to Petroglyph National Monument, now abutted with ugly housing complexes.
Situated at exactly two-thirds of the 2,250 miles from Chicago to Los Angeles—the end of Route 66 at the Pacific Ocean features a Will Rogers plaque at Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica—Gallup spreads out around mile marker 1,500. In its heyday, the El Rancho Hotel & Motel was host to innumerable movie stars, many of whose autographed portraits still line the handsome wood-paneled upper and lower lobby. While the hotel still bills itself as "home of the movie stars," with the "charm of yesterday and convenience of tomorrow," it has clearly seen better days. Its restaurant contains an ample supply of faux Mexicana, with carved-wood chairs, tacky framed artwork, dried chilies hanging from the ceiling, plus more tomorrowland additions such as strings of chile-pepper lights. Obviously a plate of enchiladas was in order after a long drive back from the Navajo Nation; they were, like much of the New Mexican food in these old haciendas, barely serviceable. Adding to the colorful aura, a woman in a halter top barked on her cellphone while pacing the floor adjacent to my table, and a group of children in the adjoining Cuarto Corona noisily shrieked while slurping their sodas. Yet the charm and convenience of El Rancho remains: The balcony of the hotel overlooking the train tracks and mountains was a great place to watch the sunset, the Harley riders screeching past, and to see the kids in their baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirts hanging out across the street.
But it was a pity the nearby Eagle Café was closed on Sunday. I had eaten some horrible tacos there on my last visit, but the charm of its cavernous dining room was bumping elbows with Navajo traders. Of course, the three Navajo ladies selling blankets at the famous Hubbell Trading Post some 70 miles west of Gallup knew it was closed, and they rolled their eyes when I mentioned it—like, duh, how could I not know the Eagle would be closed on Sunday? Gallup is a huge center for Indian jewelry, blankets, and art, but not much trading was going on during this day of rest, otherwise known as Palm Sunday. While Gallup remains the largest urban area in western New Mexico, just seven miles north of Gallup on Route 491 sits Yah-Ta-Hey, the settlement named after the traditional Navajo greeting. Back off the Mother Road, I obeyed the 75 mph speed limit on I-40, zooming past tractor-trailers and the occasional frightened out-of-stater too meek to drive 75. A huge full moon rose, guiding me all the way back to Albuquerque, stopping only for gas adjacent to the Acoma Pueblo's enormous casino, whose Sky City at elevation 7,000 feet remains the oldest continuously inhabited community in North America. (Casino gambling revenue enabled this proud tribe to spend $15 million on its impressive Sky City Cultural Center and Haak’u Museum, which opened in May of last year.)
Back in Albuquerque—with its impressive 19 exits off the Interstate—I passed many fine Route 66 establishments along Central Avenue: the Westward Ho Motel, with its neon cactus; the defunct Hubbell Motel, with its faded and worn sign displaying gang graffiti at its base; the Western View Steak House ("breakfast any time!"); Mac's La Sierra Coffee Shop, with replica heifer atop the neon sign; the Americana Motel ("Special! Singles Only!! $30.00), with a curbside hooker trawling for business; the Route 66 Malt Shop & Grill, with its green chile cheeseburgers; the El Paso-Los Angeles Limousine Express station, serving Chihuahua and Ciudad Juarez in addition to Denver; and Buster's 66 Coffee Shop ("BREAKFAS T ALL DOG GONEDAY FRE EW I FI"). Obviously the electronic road well-traveled sates the blogging travelers' appetite for Internet as well as for cheap huevos rancheros.
Tags:
albuquerque, gallup, navajo nation, route 66
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Posted on 4/4/2007
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April 03, 2007
At a swap meet in the small Navajo town of Window Rock on April Fools Day, I was the butt end of the joke. A bunch of dudes in their pickup truck stopped—literally on my left foot—and the driver pointed over my shoulder: "Hey, are those your keys over there?" I had my keys in my left hand, but I went along with it, and congratulated the dudes on pranking the only outsider in town. I saw a nice t-shirt that reads: "Just move it - Navajo Nation - T'áá hwó' ají t'éego" and asked how much it was. "Fifty cents," was the reply. I got a tamale for a $1.50, added a donation to the high school fund for the graduating class trip to Universal Studios. We talked about their trip to California, and the April Fools joke: "I'm the only tourist around; the joke has to be on me," I said. The only other non-Navajo was a Caribbean guy selling Bob Marley t-shirts. From South America to the Himalayas, Marley is the voice of the oppressed. "Buffalo Soldier" was playing on his boom box. I proceeded on to the historic Hubbell Trading Post and Canyon de Chelly.
When the pressure builds up, New Yorkers need to get out of town, and remote places like the Navajo Nation remind us of how good we have it here. The first billboard I saw entering Window Rock read: "His friends got him hooked on Meth... where are they now?" It depicts a bunch of guys in orange prison jumpsuits being put behind bars. The gang graffiti seen sprayed on a number of the sad-looking housing compounds here and in Chinle and Fort Defiance reminded me that the myriad problems facing the Navajo Nation sometimes seem insurmountable. Fetal-alcohol syndrome, public intoxication, gambling and other crimes are endemic here, and multiple signs I saw for Sunday bingo games within the Canyon de Chelly national monument underscored how tough it can be to make a dollar in this remote area. Tourists pass through daily with their huge SUVs and fat wallets, eager to bargain with the locals for jewelry and reproduced artifacts. We focus on the gorgeous scenery, and generally prefer to look askance when confronted by the glaring poverty.
So after the obligatory photo session at Spider Rock Overlook, elevation 6871 feet, I returned to the Sliding House Overlook, where I saw the same elderly lady half-hidden in a juniper bush with her thumb stuck out an hour earlier. The sun was searing, and something compelled me to stop. I'd been to the edge of the canyon, and stared down hundreds of feet. This landscape was alternately stunning, unforgiving, cruel and hypnotizing. First off, I asked her the question that was always asked of me the countless times I'd hitchhiked overseas: Where are you going? She said she was going to the Visitor Center. She was incredibly thirsty, and I gave her a bottle of water. (How thirsty had I been when hitchhiking!) We had a very friendly chat. She had left home to sell some things at the Sliding House Overlook, and having had no luck, she was going home. She was going to Chinle town. Then it seemed she was going home. The exact details didn't really matter; we chatted about local foods, her grandchildren, the weather, and the bingo games. She doesn't play bingo, although she boasted she could play 15 cards at once. She has ten grandchildren, or maybe twelve, depending on how you count the extended family relations. The kids really love her fry bread. Would she make fry bread for Easter? "Not sure," was her reply.
We got closer to the Visitor Center, and she blurted out: "Go that way!" taking us away from the Visitor Center and on to the North Rim Drive. Then we took a rocky dirty road in one direction, then another. "You'll find your way back, I'm sure," she said. I assured her it would be no problem. Suddenly, I remembered all those signs at the Visitor Center exhorting the wary traveler to lock the car and leave no valuables behind. Why all these warnings? I decided to ask this grandmother when she had left home: was it yesterday or today? "Two days ago," she replied. Then I realized: It was meth. Not only was she drunk, but what had given her the strength to wander so far afield and stay awake was meth. She pointed out the nearby hogans belonging to various relatives. Their were lots of pick-up trucks. I asked if anyone still rode a horse. "My son does," she said. But he didn't have enough money for a new saddle. Saddles are very expensive, I noted, having checked some out in Gallup, just over the border in New Mexico. Seems no one rides on a blanket any more, and anyhow trucks are much easier to transport tourists around the canyon floor than horses. We then approached her hogan—or at least she said it was hers—and I dropped her off near several junked cars. "Maybe someone is home," she meekly said. She then added: "You'll find your way back." It was time to go. I told her it was a pleasure meeting her, and we shook hands. "My name is Pearl," she said in parting. "That's my grandmother's name," I replied. I didn't mention she died 30 years ago next month.
So this 45-minute detour left me feeling uneasy. I was merely the catalyst, carrying her from Point A to B. Was that so bad? Did she really live there? Would anyone notice she had been gone? She had a teardrop tattoo under her left eye—a typical prison tattoo. I made my way back to Junction Overlook, where a number of ladies were selling jewelry out of their SUVs. I asked if anyone knew a grandmother named Pearl and gave a few details. One of them knew of her. I then told my story, asking if it was so bad that I gave her a ride. She exclaimed: "You're on the Rez; you don't give anyone a ride!" But I replied that I was from New York, and I'd experienced so much in my own city that I didn't even think twice about giving her a ride. She shook her head in disbelief. I added, "Well, at least you've got a good story to tell at home about the idiot from New York who gave Pearl a ride to her hogan."
I made my way to the Massacre Cave Overlook, where there were no other tourists to be seen. Business was bad, though it would pick up after Easter, I was told by the jewelry lady there. Her son and daughter were selling rock carvings nearby under a magnificent and gnarled juniper. After wandering around the canyon rim for a half-hour, I returned to my car. "You guys like cookies?" I asked, and we divided up my box of biscuits. Then some other tourists arrived, signaling that it was again time for me to go.
Tags:
canyon de chelly, hogan, navajo nation
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Posted on 4/3/2007
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